


The Lilting Misdreavous [One-shot] (Pokemon Bookcraft)

by DonnaBaines



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Fanfic, Fic, Horror, Hunter - Freeform, Imagery, Other, Pokemon - Freeform, Story, Terror, forest, lilting, misdreavous, pokefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnaBaines/pseuds/DonnaBaines
Summary: [One-shot] According to the ancient legends in the most intricate woods of Unova, dwelled a young and very graceful Misdreavus with a voice as pleasant to the ear as the voice of a song-bird, and whose chant was so comely and fascinating that it incited any who heard it to an arrant attraction.





	The Lilting Misdreavous [One-shot] (Pokemon Bookcraft)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everybody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybody/gifts).



**The Lilting Misdreavus**

According to the ancient and not less feared legends in the most intricate woods of Unova, since there was some madman who got through such stories, dwelled a young and very graceful Misdreavus with a voice as pleasant to the ear as the voice of a song-bird, and whose chant was so comely and fascinating that it incited any who heard it to an arrant attraction, which, without giving part of it, were seduced and annulled from all attachment to reason; just as the proverb declares, "When the wish is there, the eyes can say as much as the mouth." Many of them, even in nearby present days, were never saw or heard by people again.

Everyone was afraid of that mischievous shade. Not even the river, with being so abundant, dares to bother her.

She moves through the waters, like the saints. If she finds herself in a thorn forest, the deadly spikes of the trees, horrified, move aside to let her pass. They did not even dare to rub against her wandering hair or her fulgent pearls. An immense mountain, made of iron and stone, produces a tunnel for her. After she has passed, it closes instantly.

Midnight had arrived, impassive and imperturbable. The shade was beginning to clear her throat, and from there little by little, with spark and fervor, she recited the first ravings of the night. And, this done, she began to sing thus softly that it seemed that not even the devil dared to stop her, if he only appeared for it.

It so happened that just that same night, one of those hunters that keep the air rifle and swollen saddlebag ventured in the dingle, crossing the steep ravines where the bosky dell ends; he betook oneself towards the clough and bid farewell to his infertile spouse. Neither sorcerers nor Gurkhas dared to impose fear on him, and not even a drop of liquor had spilled from his flask.  
Fuliginous glens revealed the rivulets and the landscape began to turn darkling, some Purrloin awaited behind the bushes waiting for the right opportunity to steal.

_...there, where the banshee hummed so comfortably._

An old pagan cemetery completely surrounded the edges of the clough and there rested the mossy remains of a priesthood; its entrance was decorated with fantastically inclined gullies and from within, the specter waited whispering its libidinous lay.

There was the flutter of the Murkrow fleeing in terror, and in their darkling a subtle figure shone through the gloom. The hunter was carried away by the seduction of that graceful humming, which, like a mother who deposits a gentle caress on his son, attracted him.

But a man does not have that supernatural power. No one there fears a man. He, with his instinct, knows where that lilting chant come from.  
He reached the largest river in the woods and asked him:

"River! River! tell me which way that wonderful chant come from," said the hunter; "tell me the way, I will find it."

"Yes, of course," the river told him, "but this is not free. Something you should give me in return. I want your eyes"

His eyes fell into the depths of the stream, and became two costly pearls. This done, the river allows him to walk through its waters.

He reached the impassable thorn forest:

"Have you not seen someone go by, with a pleasant voice?" he asked.

"Yes" said the forest, which had a good day "but I will not tell you which way she had taken until you give me your legs"

"Oh, what would I not give to reach that singing!" The hunter gives his legs and the thorns move away.

He arrived at the mountain of iron and stone and repeated the order. It was a happy coincidence that that day the mountain was with a very good mood:  
"Because today was fifty years of the glorious moment when Frederick the Great invaded Saxony, not only will I let you pass but also I will ask you for a trifle in return: give me your hands"

The hunter, with his teeth, cuts his hands and hands them to him.

He know well that the chant comes from a chiaroscuro. And thus, blind, without legs or hands, he entered the greensward crawling as he could.

He was right because there was she, always stately and soaring, wandering exactly in the middle of the desolate. He could not classify it! She went through, without more or less, the most sublime verses, to the most exalted prose!

The banshee smiled, with respect and astonishment, since in the thousands of years that that horrible work had been doing, she had never seen so much self-denial. She looked at him for a while; then she whispered with a smile:

"I cannot help feeling some pity for you,-because you are so young... You are a pretty boy; and I will not hurt you now. But, if you ever tell anybody-even your own mother-about what you have seen this night, I shall know it; and then I will kill you... Remember what I say!"

Even as she screamed, her voice became thin, like a moan from the wind;-then she melted into a bright white mist that ascended to the ether, and shuddered away through the trees...

Then he found himself able to move and to see; and he sprang up, and looked out. But the shade was nowhere to be seen; and the brume was driving furiously into the hut.

_...she had seduced him, shoving him into a life of terror_

On the way back, small prefabs adorned the remote branches; the hunter, estranged, wandered the hills for weeks and in his head repeated the same images of isles heavily covered in slime.

The trees that surrounded the rocky sidewalks looked stunted and sickly, and the villagers danced to their suburbs laughing through their crooked mouths.  
He could still hear her voice; her singing sounded everywhere.

Where the streams were flowing.

And where the wind blew corroding the fine groves..

_That singing, surely, was lovely_


End file.
